I push myself off the floor, wincing at the slight pain in my lower back. It’s nothing a bag of ice and ibuprofen won’t fix, but still. Turning to face him, I repeat my statement with a tone of disbelief.
Darcy takes his dear sweet time shuffling papers on his desk before clasping his hands together until his knuckles go white. “Sorry, but I’m not a seer. How was I supposed to know you would fall when I opened the door?”
Agitation spreads through my veins. “How were you—what? It’s common sense! It’s gravity. What do you mean—” Anger fills my vision, and I can’t string coherent thoughts together, much lesswords. How dare he? One minute he is offering ramen noodles and cinnamon rolls and is making fiery eyes at me like he wants to devour my lips. The next minute he lets me fall to the floor while I am close enough that he could have caught me or at the very least grabbed my arm or clothes.
The teenage girl who didn’t know how to control her emotions begs to be set free, but one thought keeps me grounded: Darcy Marshall, regardless of his abhorrent behavior, is running for president and is my boss…and my husband.
I finally speak through gritted teeth. “Let’s just get this schedule fixed so that we can go to bed.”
Darcy’s face remains emotionless, but his thumbs circle each other over and over. I’ve learned to recognize this as a sign of uncertainty and confusion. Does he truly not understand what just happened?
No.I shake my head.It doesn’t matter. Whether he understands or not, it doesn’t mean you have to take this treatment.
He nods. I sit down in the chair in front of his desk while trying to mask the pain I feel. The anger. My own confusion.
I don’t bother to ask if his uncertainty is over not catching me, almost kissing me, or the crazy mood swings he makes me endure.
Because it doesn’t matter. I can’t keep letting him mess with my emotions, regardless of if he understands what he is doing or not. He doesn’t want to have a friendship with me? Fine. That was all I was asking for, but not anymore.
I will be the epitome of professionalism.
About an hour of brief statements and formal speech passes between us before Darcy, taking me by surprise, actually hascinnamon rolls delivered to his office. Janice brings them in and tells us to have a wonderful night and to enjoy her secret family recipe before scurrying out.
“I’m sorry I let you fall, Hayden,” he says, offering me a plate with three cinnamon rolls. There’s a trace of uncertainty in his eyes, and I have to hold in my laugh. He’s such a paradox.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the plate. It’s warm on the bottom, and the smell of the cinnamon rolls leave my mouth watering. Taking a bite, I relish in the gooeyness. “Okay, you’re forgiven.” The words come out mumbled because my mouth is full of deliciousness.
Darcy smiles softly, watching me eat. I gesture for him to get one, but he declines with a shake of his head. Once I’ve devoured the first cinnamon roll while he’s fidgeted awkwardly with his shirt sleeves and straightened the pens on his desk three times, he says, “I’m autistic.”
Again, I find myself holding in a laugh. Not because I find the situation funny, but because it’s so obvious. I should have known. So many people go undiagnosed, and I had an inkling he may fall into that category, but it wasn’t my place to pry. I set the plate down, blot my face with a tissue from his desk, and look into his eyes. Blue irises search me, waiting for a reaction. He’s scared.
“Thank you for telling me, Darcy.” I reach for his hand, and surprisingly, he allows me to take it from across the desk. “It helps me understand you better. But it doesn’t change who you are in my eyes, okay?”
He laughs lightly. “Is that a good thing? That I’m still the same in your eyes?”
“Yes.” I grin. “You are the same stoic, sometimes robotic, man that I married. Now I understand why you’re that way.”
“Do you think it’s bad that I’m that way?”
The uncertainty in his voice pinches my core. I squeeze his hand. “No. Not at all.” I lean across the desk, and when he warily eyes the papers I’m accidently shuffling around, I can’t help but laugh, which brings his attention back to me. I smirk. “I like your sourness. Balances my sweet nicely. For example,” I wiggle against the papers on his desk, “I can mess up your desk and watch your frustrations grow. It’s fun to crawl underneath your skin.”
He sighs, closing his eyes, and I laugh again as he removes his hand from mine and stands, opening his eyes once more.
But they’ve darkened. He steps round the desk, and I stand to meet him, a mild fear he’s going to reprimand me for leaning over the top of his desk. That signature spicy and sweet scent he carries mingles with the cinnamon rolls, creating something enchanting. We’re toe-to-toe, him towering over me as his mussed hair falls against the side of his face, when he whispers like a spoken lullaby, “What am I going to do with all of your sunshine? You’re chasing away my cloudy skies.”
The alarm on my phone goes off too early. Why did he schedule our flight so early? It’s ungodly tobe awake at 4:15 in the morning, especially when I didn’t collapse into bed until a little after one in the morning.
Three hours of sleep to run on.Dream-filled sleep. Dreams where Darcy cleared off his desk with the sweep of his hand, lifted me by the hips, and set me on top.We won’t talk about what happened next.
I drag my heated self out of bed, throw on my robe, and begin the lengthy process of transforming from regular Hayden Bennett to Hayden Bennett Marshall while not thinking of the all-too-vivid dream. Since we are flying to Texas today, I opt for flowy yellow linen pants and a white sleeveless blouse, a light layer of makeup, and an updo. A stylist will be waiting for me to change my entire outfit, face, and hairstyle before the event, but I still have to look dressy and presentable for travel. I never know when the media will snap a picture of me and Darcy together, and I cannot make him look bad.
Being his wife is only an extension of my campaign manager position, after all.
About an hour later, I’m standing by the front door with a travel bag waiting on Darcy. I check my watch, realizing he is three minutes late. Darcy Marshall is never late. Never.
“Mrs. Marshall!” One of the housekeepers scurries down the corridor calling my name over and over.
“Janice,” I state as she comes into full view. “What’s wrong?”
